


Patterns of Similarity

by LuciferianRising



Series: Divulging Peculiarities [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Attempt at Humor, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, FACE Family, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Protective Siblings, Sexual Content, Spring Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferianRising/pseuds/LuciferianRising
Summary: Arthur Kirkland settles down with his new partner, though things don't seem to come as easily as he'd imagined. There's still the whole issue of him being emotionally inept and perhaps just a little closed off, but that's not all. Alfred discovers he has a long lost brother, and a scheduled meeting between the two sets in motion a whole slew of events, ones that Arthur isn't sure his patience can handle.At least Francis seems to be having fun with the entire ordeal.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia), Canada/Ukraine (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Series: Divulging Peculiarities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891870
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Franco-British

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been 3 years since I published Divulging Peculiarities, and by complete chance, I just so happened to fall back into the Hetalia hole. I wanted so badly to write some more sweet FrUK, and it seemed fitting for me to expand on that story. So here we are, back at it again, only this time, it's going to be a bit spicier and more chaotic. I hope you all enjoy, and as always, I appreciate any feedback I receive on this story!

It was a hostile takeover.

Everything that had once been his little quaint home had been positively transformed into a gaudy recreation of what a modern Baroque period would look like. There was too much pink, Arthur had thought, as he bitterly downed his piping hot tea one evening, but there was no real anger or annoyance there. 

He just needed the illusion of being upset to cope with the fact that Francis had put himself everywhere in his home, and it just so happened to clash with Arthur’s boring green and brown tones.

It was like their own little palace now, with twinkling brass and faux gold items littering the shelves and topping the tables. A new cookset, one that outclassed the dinky wares Arthur had once called his own, lines the kitchen walls and shelves. Flowers were everywhere, roses of various colors all sitting in their colorful, decorative vases. 

Tapestries depicting swirls of golden suns and silver moons, a new welcome mat that boasted some sort of French greeting, seat covers that were equally as comfortable as they were garish, and a slew of novels that now occupied the once half full bookshelf. Most of them were mushy, dramatic romance titles, the kind that made Arthur feel almost sick from the sweetness of them. Flowery words and well put together confessions of love, they were a faint echo of what Francis Bonnefoy was. 

The bedroom no longer resembled itself either. Once thin and scratchy covers were replaced with a thick and much too comfortable bed set, and photos of friends and themselves lined the once bare walls. Alfred’s smile was persistent in all of them, and the new addition of Antonio and Gilbert was strange, but not unwelcome. 

Arthur was unused to having so many people shoved into his life under such short notice, but could he really complain about having more friends? Yes, yes he could, in that crabby fashion of his that was often flaunted as a way to cover his more tender emotions. There were times where he would become so overwhelmed with the amount of support he now boasted that he’d feel his chest swell and his heart become full with something almost borderline painful, but he would swallow all of that down with another cup of tea, willing himself to stay jaded and stoic. 

Of course, all it took was a single kiss to undo all of that, and Arthur would melt into Francis’ arms, be swept away by his soft murmurs and even softer touches, and then there was no semblance of the bitter and lonely man he’d been just a few months prior.

Nights were no longer cold (except they still were in a way because Francis’ skin was _chilling_ ) but instead spent curled into the side of the man who’d once annoyed him from across the hallway. And while Francis hardly slept as much as Arthur, he was content to lie with him all night, fingers stroking softly through choppy blonde hair, and voice tender as he spoke sweet whispers in French that eventually lulled Arthur into a deep, peaceful sleep. 

Morning would come, and Arthur would awake alone, but then the smell of something wonderful and mouth watering would waft through the house, and faintly he would hear singing and know that Francis was hard at work on breakfast. It was so… domestic, but in those private moments where Arthur would lie in bed, he’d let himself enjoy it. 

Today was one of those mornings. It takes a while to will himself out from underneath the covers, but it’s not as difficult as it once used to be. Winter is long over, and late Spring brings with it warmer air and muddled days full of nothing but warmer rain, but that’s much more preferable to the ice and snow. 

Arthur trudges clumsily down the hallway, rubbing at his messy hair and willing himself to wake up. Francis’ melodic voice becomes stronger the closer he gets to the kitchen, and he allows himself to focus purely on that, letting the foreign words act as a balm for the sharpness of the morning. 

He turns the corner, and stops beneath the arch leading into the kitchen, green eyes blinking wearily. Francis has already set the table, spoons and forks arranged in their proper places on either side of the plate and waiting for the other occupant of the house to take his seat before them. Arthur wordlessly crosses the kitchen and plops down into the seat with little grace, still half asleep though feeling the first pangs of hunger hitting him. He didn’t see what Francis was cooking, but he can definitely smell it, and it doesn’t fail to make his stomach rumble.

“ _Bonjour, mon coeur ._ ” He hears the other announce pleasantly.

Arthur manages to answer rather gruffly, “Morning.”

“Did you sleep well? You barely moved last night.” It was routine for Francis to always ask him this, and as such, Arthur always tried to give him an honest answer. 

“I slept like the dead.” He clears his throat, still scratchy and thick from sleep. “What time did you get up?”

“Six. I was almost afraid I would wake you, but ah… well, you did _sleep like the dead._ ” 

“Had a lot of clients yesterday. Was exhausting.”

“I work there too, love. I saw.” Francis teases him gently, and the sound of sizzles rising from the pan he’s using flares up. Arthur tries not to think too hard about food, lest he wants his stomach to become a black hole and consume him. 

“Great, so you should’ve known already.” 

“Forgive me for wanting to hear your voice. You see, I am utterly enamored with you and I do so love to hear you speak.” Arthur swears he can feel a wink being directed his way, and he tries not to scoff at Francis’ overly romantic reasoning. 

“I am the most tone deaf person this side of the city.” He goes to reach for his teacup, but realizes that it’s not even been set yet. 

Francis seems to sense this, and in a moment, he’s leaning over Arthur and setting a gold accented cup full of steaming hot tea beside his plate. Immediately, Arthur’s senses are piqued by the sweet smelling cologne wafting off the other, and it becomes embarrassingly hard not to bury his nose in Francis’ cardigan. His lover lingers over him, his head turning to press a soft kiss into Arthur’s cheek, and the Brit allows this, giving a little hum of appreciation. 

Francis’ laughter is gentle as he pulls away, his fingers delicately caressing the underside of Arthur’s jawline. “Breakfast is done. Wait right here.”

“Thanks,” Arthur offers sheepishly, feeling his face warm with a subtle blush. He’s still getting used to the whole concept of being in a serious relationship, and there are plenty of emotions to parse through. Francis seems to be adept at bringing them all to the surface with a single action. 

A thought strikes him, one that he’s surprised hasn’t crossed his mind yet. As he listens to the clink of plates and cookware, Arthur can’t help but wonder how Francis is still so adept at cooking. For a man who couldn’t gain much use out of ordinary human food, he was certainly skilled at creating some delectable dishes. He figured the man’s skill would wane with disuse over time, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. 

He sits there, finger curled around the handle of his teacup idly, eyes staring at something far off as his mind wanders around aimlessly, tossing around question after question about his sometimes enigmatic partner. They were all things that Arthur berated himself for never asking, though now that he thinks of it, it might have been his nerves holding him back. 

He tried not to pry too much into Francis’ condition. It felt wrong to him, as though he was trivializing everything Francis was down into a single trait. He didn’t want it to seem like that was all he was interested in. There were plenty of other things about the man that drew Arthur’s attention, and he’d rather focus on those. 

...But of course, it had been months since they first shared that kiss in the snow, and Arthur’s curiosity was beginning to get the best of him. 

Francis returns to the table with soft, muted footsteps, and the scent of something savory melts with his own sweet aroma. The combination makes Arthur’s mouth water. He looks down to see him place a steaming meal before him, and the sight makes the sharpest of hunger pangs assault his stomach. Arthur has to suppress a grateful moan at the plate sitting in front of him, and his free hand curls around a fork in anticipation.

There were many perks to having Francis Bonnefoy as a partner. This was one of his favorites. 

A fluffy omelette topped with an extra helping of sauteed vegetables and melted cheese, spicy sausage links, toast that was just the perfect shade of brown, and a cinnamon roll for a small side of dessert that was just oozing icing. Arthur didn’t even know where to start, so he opted for cutting a corner off of the omelette. The flavor was, unsurprisingly, divine. 

“You know,” he tests the words slowly, once his food is swallowed and he’s dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Cooking doesn’t seem to benefit you anymore.”

“Oh?” Francis’s tone is curious, and he sits with his cheek propped against his hand, his lips stretched into an amused smile. “I would say that it still benefits me greatly. After all, I have the pleasure of feeding you now.”

“No, I mean-“ Arthur pauses, and wonders silently if he should ask about it at all. He’d been careful up until this point not to pry too far back into Francis’ history, but… “Can I ask you a question?” 

“You can ask me anything, _cher._ ”

“How… long have you been like- well. This.”

“Like this?” Francis echoes, though he smiles in a way that shows both sharp points of his teeth. Arthur’s brows dip slightly. Francis merely laughs, his voice light and tinkling, “Forgive me, but your reactions are always so genuine.”

Arthur crosses his arms, food put on standby as he attempts to look irritated. “Fine then. I suppose I don’t really care.”

“ _Non, non_ , let me answer. I was merely teasing you.” Francis pleads, and there’s a softness to his voice that melts away Arthur’s hard exterior. The Brit deflates, sighing quietly. “Let me see. I do believe it has been six years now, give or take.”

It’s a simple answer, nothing too interesting in terms of detail, though the next question Arthur wants to ask has nervousness bubbling up inside of him. He forces the words out, though a wave of anticipatory anxiety washes over him. “...How did it happen?”

At that, Francis’ amused expression seems to fade away, and in its place comes visible discomfort. Already, Arthur can feel the words building up on his tongue; a slew of apologies intermixed with recanting sentences. He goes to speak, to seal the lid on top of that particular container, but Francis merely holds his hand up, beckoning him to remain silent. 

Arthur swallows thickly, and sits there in suffocating silence. 

Finally, the other’s accented voice fills the silence, and it’s hushed and quiet and too raw and nothing at all like Francis’ usual confident tone. “I was assaulted.” He begins, and his eyes avert elsewhere, pointedly away from Arthur. “Outside of a cinema, late at night, on my way home from a movie. I did not know what was happening to me. One moment, I was walking, and the next-“ 

A feeling of sickness washes over Arthur. His eyes flit down to the once appetizing food sitting before him, and he finds that he suddenly doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore. With fingers that threaten to tremble, he brings his teacup to his lips and swallows down a warm mouthful, hoping that it’ll settle his stomach somewhat.

Francis remains quiet for a long moment across the table, eyes downcast and seemingly studying the wood grain. Arthur feels his chest constrict, and there’s a strange urge to close the distance between them and wrap his arms tightly around the other. That’s never been like him, however.

Francis continues, though his voice is full of reluctance and his words are clipped. “It happened quickly, but it felt like forever. The initial illness, the pain. It was so fast, so sudden. I… could not comprehend.” 

Arthur struggles to find his voice, and when he speaks, it’s in a quiet and sympathetic tone. “I… didn’t know. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“ _Non_ ,” Francis murmurs quietly, and his hand comes up to massage at his opposite arm. It’s a nervous tick Arthur has yet to see, and it drives home just how tender the subject is. “Do not worry about me. It happened years ago, and I am fine now, am I not?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Arthur interjects, offended on Francis’ behalf that such a thing could be dismissed, as if it were an everyday occurrence. “That’s not okay.” He laughs an empty, broken laugh. “You have a life changing condition. You can’t just… wave that off and pretend that it’s alright.”

“Arthur,” Francis begins, and he suddenly sounds tired, almost exasperated.

“Francis,” Arthur mirrors him, though his mood has shifted from horrified to defensive over the other. “You honestly can’t justify that. You can’t pass that off as just another thing. It’s- it’s-“

“Arthur,” Francis repeats, and somehow, he sounds even more tired than before. “I do not want to talk about it.” 

It stings in a way that Arthur can’t explain, but he can’t fault Francis for wanting to cut the conversation short. Still though, it leaves him feeling raw, because honestly, he was just trying to defend the other’s well being. It also hurts because now Francis is quiet and reserved, and it’s nothing like his typical behavior. It plants a seed of worry within Arthur, and the unease he feels now is almost choking. 

The morning had been so nice. Arthur wishes he could rewind time, undo his silly questioning, and go back to hearing the sounds of the Frenchman singing softly, lulling him in and out of sleep. He feels stuck now, like there’s no easy way of undoing the tension surrounding them. The knowledge of what happened to Francis sits inside of him, like a thin layer of poison coating his mind. 

Arthur wants to crawl back into bed for a while. 

He thinks he might do just that; fall back asleep and let unconsciousness wash away all the uneasy feelings spinning inside of him at the moment. It feels like someone has their hand gripped uncomfortably tight around his heart, and he’s not sure how much more he can take before the first tears threaten to spill out. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, to be so upset over such a small thing, but then he realizes that it’s not something small, because it’s _Francis_ , and of course it hurts, because he _loves_ him. 

He just wishes he could do more to help console the other. He feels so emotionally stunted and useless

Arthur pushes his seat away from the table, and he stands, hands splayed tensely across the wood. He tries to appear calm when he speaks, but his voice is terse and quiet. “I’ll eat this later.” 

He doesn’t look for a reaction or response. He has the sudden urge to flee the room, and his feet begin carrying him towards the hallway. It feels as though all the energy has been sucked out of him, and more than anything, he just wants to curl up and silently cry his frustrations out. Not the most elegant or adult thing to do, he thinks, but right now he doesn’t really care. 

He gets to the archway before he feels fingers curl around his bicep. Arthur stills immediately, though he doesn’t speak, too fearful that his voice will tremble and reveal just how vulnerable he feels at the moment. 

Francis’ voice is gentle, yet reassuring at his ear, and he can feel the cool breath of the other sweeping over his neck. It manages to make the hard line of Arthur’s shoulders soften a little. “Forgive me. I have upset you.”

Arthur exhales, not realizing that he’d been holding his breath so much. Silence hangs in the air between them for a long moment, but Arthur eventually finds his voice, and it’s rough and curt. “You didn’t. I’m not upset at you, I’m upset over you.” 

“I wish you were not.” Francis’ voice remains a whisper. Arthur can feel the other press against his back, and soon thereafter comes a pair of arms wrapping around his midsection. Cold radiates from the body behind him, but in this moment where Arthur feels almost feverish from concern, it has a nice pacifying effect. “I am here now, and I am okay. I am better than okay, actually. I am with you. You make my world brighter, Arthur.”

“Alfred says I always have a rain cloud sitting over my head.”

“Perhaps, but not always. You shine brightest whenever it is needed.” There’s the distinct feeling of lips pressing against the tender skin of his neck, and Arthur tries his best not to shudder from the touch. “How about we forget everything from before and sleep in a little late? I feel like I did not get enough time with you last night.”

“You were with me all night long,” Arthur counters lightly. His fingers curl around Francis’ hands, and he leans back into the slightly taller frame of the other. 

“When it comes to you, I can never get enough.” 

“Your tolerance for me is honestly concerning.”

There comes a round of laughter at that, and Arthur is relieved to hear that some of the mirth has found its way back into Francis’ voice. “I am madly in love with you. What do you want? A rational answer?” 

“I want to go back to bed.” Arthur answers smoothly.

Francis steps around him, arms slipping away from his middle. His hands rise, however, and gently cup Arthur’s face, forcing him to meet the violet tinged blue irises. Arthur can feel his cheeks warming with a blush. “As long as I get to hold you. Will you let me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, and tries to appear unfazed by the other’s dizzying affections. “Yes. Whatever.”

The hours tick by, and Arthur gets lost in the feeling of fingers carding lovingly through his hair, dozes in and out of sleep between the French verses of a song, and lets the tension run out of his limbs like water, content to lie there and let Francis chase away all the negativity from the morning with his endless love.

* * *

“I’m telling you, I am freaking the hell out. Do you know what this is like, dude? It’s like a really bad episode of The Twilight Zone. Straight up expecting the world to turn black and white and grainy.”

“Let me get this straight: you have a twin brother that suddenly got into contact with you. He wants to meet you in person, and he’s flying over in a few days?” Arthur tries to focus on the words on his computer screen, but Alfred’s story is just too compelling. He sighs and leans back in his office chair, giving up for the moment in lieu of hearing his dear friend lose his mind. 

“Yeah!” Alfred’s voice rises, and Arthur makes a motion with his hand to keep things down. 

The delivery driver glances towards the hallway to see if any pointed looks were being directed his way, but only Francis is visible from across the space. However, his hands are steepled beneath his chin and he looks increasingly interested in the conversation happening in Arthur’s office. 

“How did you not know?” Arthur asks, genuine disbelief bleeding into his voice. 

“Dude, do you think they tell you these things? The American foster care system is as wacky as they come. It’s normal for kids to be separated and then never hear from each other again. How the heck was I supposed to know that I had a long lost twin brother?” For once, Alfred seems to be completely ruffled and undone by something. Arthur isn’t quite sure what to make of it, or what to even say to the younger man. 

Curse his lack of comforting skills. 

“What’s his name? Did he at least tell you that?” Arthur asks, but then spies Francis approaching his door. His partner stops at the entrance, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed as he listens in on their conversation. 

“It’s Mathieu, but he demands that I call him Matt for short. He’s supposed to be living in Montreal, Quebec over in Canada or something.” Alfred sighs and his fingers run through his dark blonde hair in exasperation. “This is gonna be awkward, dude, I can feel it. We’re gonna be like, trying to talk to each other and one of us is gonna say something weird, and then I’m gonna have to fake being sick or something so I can walk away and then it’ll be like in 8-Mile when Eminem is staring into the bathroom mirror, contemplating his life choices-“

“Alfred,” Arthur chastises him gently, forcing the other to cut his growing tirade short before it became too nonsensical. “Remember to breathe. Everything will work out fine.”

“ _Oui_ , I am certain everything will work out, though, if I may ask, where was he from again?” Francis finally makes himself known, and Alfred startles almost violently, knocking a few papers off of Arthur’s desk in his panic. 

“Woah! Hey, you gotta make some noise or whatever before you sneak up on somebody like that. Artie needs to tie a bell around you or something.” Alfred bends down, hands reaching for the discarded papers, though his voice does carry on. “Uh, Quebec. Had a little bit of an accent, but I guess I probably didn’t sound much better, being from the south and all.” 

“Fascinating.” A smile lights up Francis’ face, and then Arthur can see it; the metaphorical gears turning inside the other’s head. His lips part, the words ready to come tumbling out, but Francis’ voice rises over his own. “Perhaps things would be easier if you had some friends to help break the ice? Two is lonely, but four sounds much more lively, _non_?”

“Oh man, do you really mean that? Because that would make things a lot more bearable. At least if I say something stupid, I’ve got you and Artie to cover my tracks.”

Arthur suppresses a groan. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at his temples, willing the oncoming headache to stay at bay. He should have known that once Francis learned of Alfred’s issue that he’d invite himself to try and fix it. The man didn’t know when to let sleeping dogs lie. 

“Tell him to meet us here,” Arthur can see Francis writing down their address on a slip of paper. 

The two of them converse together, content to let Arthur sit and deal with his creeping headache. Through the slight throbs of pain, he tries to imagine what this Mathieu looks like, but all he can think of is an Alfred clone with a fake Canadian-French accent, and the imagery is enough to almost make him laugh. Almost. 

The more he thinks about it, the more curious he becomes towards the whole matter. Suddenly, the prospect of playing middleman between the two brothers is less dreadful and more intriguing. He wants to see the differences, if any, between the two of them. And maybe it’d pay to see Alfred become tongue-tied and make a fool out of himself. Alfred had sat and watched for weeks while Arthur did just that, so it’d be entertaining to see their spots reversed.

All in good fun, he rationalizes. There was nothing wrong with watching a friend squirm every once in a while, as long as it was harmless. 


	2. Lines Drawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates! Still getting my writing mojo back. I know for a fact that the writing quality of this story as opposed to the original piece is nowhere near as good, but I ask that you please be patient with me. I'm hoping that by the end, I'll feel confident enough to say that I'm satisfied with this!

“What do I do? Should I be sitting or standing or, uhh…” 

Arthur could hear the other from his spot in the kitchen, patiently waiting for the kettle of water to begin boiling. It had been this way since Alfred had arrived, and the other’s restlessness was beginning to bleed into Arthur. Just hearing him wandering aimlessly around the living area, asking an array of ridiculous, menial questions was beginning to make  _ him _ nervous. 

Which, of course, it could have been the fact that he was inviting a complete stranger into his home, something he didn’t really make a habit of doing, but then again, had it really been him who’d set this entire thing up?

Of course not. 

“Relax. Sit down until he arrives. Then you can answer the door-” He can hear Francis trying to gently calm the other down.

“Will you answer it with me? Oh man, if I open that door up, I’m not gonna know what to say. We’ll just stare at each other or something and I’m not mentally prepared for that-”

“I’ll answer it with you, if it makes you feel better.” Francis offers almost mercifully. 

Arthur rolls his eyes as he fishes through the drawer for a mitten to grab the kettle with. Really, it’s a bit strange seeing Alfred so worked up and out of his usual confident element, but at the same time, it’s lowkey entertaining as well. Though, he supposes that if he were in Alfred’s shoes, he’d probably be equally as terrified.

“Hey Artie, are you almost done?” Alfred’s voice carries from the living room to the kitchen, and Arthur has to suppress a scowl at his insistent behavior. “I feel like I’m gonna be sick. Dude, I might actually throw up.”

“No throwing up on my furniture!” Arthur grouses at the other. He retrieves four teacups from the cabinet and lays them out in a line, contemplating if he should wait for Matthieu to arrive or not. He’s not sure if Alfred’s brother even likes tea or not, but for his sake, Arthur rationalizes that if he’s going to be in his home, then he better damn well drink it. 

“Deep breaths, Alfred. You are thinking too hard about matters-”

“It’s five thirty-five, and he said he’d be here at five thirty, oh my god, he could be here at any moment.” Despite Francis’ valiant attempts, Alfred’s panic just seems to set in deeper and deeper as the minutes tick by. Arthur can hear a soft sigh slip out of his partner, a feeling that he decides is quite mutual. 

He decides to fill the cups anyway, dropping in the teabags and letting the flavor diffuse as an excuse to keep himself away from his manic friend just a little bit longer. He tries his best to ignore the dramatic theatrics happening in the next room, standing with his hand cocked on his hip as he stares at the piping hot water and watches it slowly turn from clear to amber. 

He’s not exactly sure how this is all going to play out, and the uncertainty of it all makes nervousness bubble inside of him. If Alfred’s brother is anything like the aforementioned, it’ll be like throwing gasoline onto an already raging fire. For a moment, he fears for his home, for all the meticulously placed items and cleanliness that make up his sacred space. 

It’s hard enough to keep Alfred’s hands off of his items. Two Alfreds would be like trying to wrangle a wild pack of animals. Just the thought alone threatens to produce a headache. He finds his fingers already rubbing idly at his temples. 

Five more minutes tick by, and Arthur is about to call the two of them into the kitchen for their tea, but a light tapping on the front door makes him pause, his head turning fractionally towards the entryway, which he can see from his spot in the kitchen. Alfred’s babbling stops on a dime, and for a tense, long moment, there’s nothing but silence throughout the house. 

Arthur ends up releasing a breath that he didn’t even realize he was holding, and the small sound seems to be picked up by Francis, who in turn clears his throat, “I do believe that might be him.”

Despite his wishes to stay invisible and out of the line of fire, Arthur ends up creeping towards the arch leading into the living room, and he peers curiously around the corner. He can see Alfred’s face now, and the color has drained out of it, leaving him looking unusually pale. He seems to be frozen to his spot in the recliner, which he’s sure Francis made him sit in. 

Francis, however, isn’t content to let the other sit and simmer in his panic. He grabs gently at Alfred’s arm and urges the other to stand. “Come now, do not make him wait. The sooner you say hello, the sooner you two can get to know each other.”

“Okay. Okay… Alright. I got this. I got this.” Alfred chants to himself as he’s led to the front door by the elbow. Another round of knocking commences, and immediately Arthur can see the regret wash over his friend’s face. “Oh god, I don’t have this.” 

“Shh. Open the door.” Francis urges him mildly. 

For a moment, the thought that perhaps Mathieu could hear the two of them speaking passes through Arthur’s head. He can only imagine what the other must be thinking, hearing them speak as if some grand undertaking was underway. He ends up chuckling underneath his breath, the ridiculousness of the entire situation fully sinking in. 

Best to find humor where he could, lest he let his worries eat him alive. 

Alfred stands in front of the door, hands fiddling with each other as the knocking continues. Francis spares him a sympathetic glance, his violet tinged eyes softening at the other’s restlessness. However, that doesn’t stop him from wrapping his fingers around Alfred’s wrist and guiding his hand towards the doorknob. 

“Remember to stay calm. Treat him like you would treat a friend. Do not try to force any preconceived notions of what you  _ think _ must happen. Just act normal.” 

“Act normal. Right. Normal.” Alfred repeats slowly. Arthur can see him turning the knob, taking his sweet time with opening the door. He can feel himself becoming impatient with Alfred’s hesitation, the feeling akin to slowly removing a bandaid instead of quickly ripping it off. It was borderline painful to watch. 

The door comes off the latch, and Alfred sluggishly pulls it open. Arthur waits with bated breath to see who waits on the other side, and he strains to see around Alfred’s broad shoulders and head. He steps away from the arch, and quietly places himself in the living room. For a moment, his eyes drift towards Francis, and he can see the other’s lips parted in surprise, his thin eyebrows drawn up in an equal gesture as he stares at whoever is standing outside. 

Silence reigns once more, and the air is thick and heavy with an unpleasant sort of tension. Arthur can feel it constricting him, sucking the air out of his lungs and making him want to retreat back into the kitchen. Francis, however, is quick to sense the unease, and sets about lessening it with his chatty demeanor. 

“Bonjour! You must be Mathieu! And… ah... “ 

The addition of the ‘and’ has Arthur pausing, his brows briefly furrowing in confusion. Curiosity ends up getting the better of him, making his feet carry him closer towards the front door to get a better look. He sidles up next to Alfred, his eyes trying to study the other’s face, only to find it blank with confusion. They then flit towards the entryway, and the audible gasp that threatens to slip from his lips is only stemmed by him pursing them together. 

There stands a man who, by all means, is almost a carbon copy of Alfred. All the features he’d come to associate with his American friend are there, from the honey blonde hair, to the glasses, to the structure of their face, and even their damned height. They stood at equal lengths, staring, something unspoken passing between them as they regarded each other.

In those brief moments, Arthur could discern a few differences, however. While Alfred wore square frames, Mathieu wore circular ones. While Alfred’s hair hung straight, Mathieu’s had a slight waviness to it. Alfred’s eyes were crystal blue, but Mathieu’s were slightly darker. There was also a stubborn strand sticking up from the other’s head, curling over so slightly; a parallel to Alfred’s own little stubborn strand that refused to lie flat. 

That’s not all, however. Mathieu’s likeness to Alfred is enough to steal the air out of Arthur’s lungs, sure, but it’s the two additional strangers on either side of him that really inspires his confusion. His eyes flit down, follow the length of Mathieu’s arm, and they find that it curls around the waste of the woman, her generously wide hips taking up a bit more space than the other two individuals. Both unknowns possess a head of bob-length silvery blonde hair, and eyes that put Francis’ own slight violet hues to shame. 

The other stranger is a man, and a tower of a man at that. His height easily dwarfs his two companions, and his eyes have an artificial softness to them that borders more on creepy than pleasant. His skin is pale, strikingly so, and the slight shadows that dip beneath his eyes hint at a spider webbing series of stories. 

All three are dressed a little too warmly for the muggy and rainy days of London, but they don’t seem to be too phased by the sluggish heat. Arthur, however, is almost sweating just looking at them. 

“ _ Oui _ , I’m Mathieu. But, ahh… I prefer to be called Matt in all honesty. Judging by the fact that I’m not sure if I’m looking in a mirror or not, I think this is the right house…?”

“Woah…” Alfred mumbles, undignified, and the panic that had overridden his face just a few moments ago is slowly morphing into genuine awe. “If I like, move my hand, you aren’t gonna do the same thing, right? ‘Cause that’d be insanely creepy.”

“I was about to ask you the same thing!” Mathieu exclaims, throwing his free hand up in exasperation. “Wait a second. What’s your favorite food? Answer on three. One… two…”

“Pancakes!”

“Double Cheeseburger Deluxe, add bacon, add bacon, add bacon…”

Alfred’s voice trails off into silence, and immediately, Arthur can hear a snort of laughter from Francis, who seems entirely unable to keep a straight face during the exchange. 

Blue eyes flit about the group, and Francis coughs awkwardly into his fist, averting his eyes elsewhere. “ _ Je suis désolé. _ ” 

“ _ Pardonné. _ ” Mathieu seems to acquise. 

“What a fascinating accent.” Francis wonders aloud, his index finger tapping thoughtfully against his chin.

“O-Oh, yeah!” Mathieu’s arm gives the woman at his side a brief comforting squeeze, and his gaze turns to meet that of the towering man beside him, before he’s turning his attention back to the inhabitants of Arthur’s house. “This is my wife, Katyusha, and my brother-in-law, Ivan. We are, uhh… sort of a package deal. Where I go, Katyusha goes, and where she goes, well-”

“Is where I go.” Ivan speaks, and his voice is not at all what Arthur expected it to be. It’s got a deep timbre to it, but at the same time, it’s so soft spoken, so smooth with the way his accent makes the words melt together. Too gentle for a man who looked like he could break you in half. 

“Ohhh. Protective type, huh? I guess I get it.” Alfred nods eagerly, but Arthur can briefly see his eyes flitting up and down the man’s body, seemingly sizing him up. Of course, there were some things Arthur found insufferable about his dear friend. His desire to always appear as the biggest guy in any room was one of them. 

Ivan says nothing in return, but his head dips a bit, seems to incline in recognition, though the way it darkens the shadows beneath his eyes makes Arthur swallow thickly. 

“Please, come in. Come in. You have been standing out there for too long.” Francis ushers the newcomers into Arthur’s cozy home, and suddenly the living room feels more cramped than it has in a long, long time. 

Mathieu, Katyusha, and Ivan are shuffled over to the loveset, which barely proves that it can host all three of them together. Alfred flops back into the recliner, seemingly over his anxieties, and Francis sits down on the plush carpet, pulling Arthur down by the hand until the two are sitting thigh to thigh, and gazing up at all the additional faces. 

Arthur nearly swears in relief once Alfred begins talking, because he was certain he couldn’t handle another bout of awkward, stomach churning silence. And talk Alfred does, his mouth running at a hundred miles an hour, questions flying from left and right, his hands coming up to dramatically emphasize his curiosity. And lo and behold, though his own curiosity is a bit more tame in comparison, Mathieu speaks just as eagerly, and the two converse as if they were old, old friends who’d finally met again after so many years. 

It’s enough to leave Arthur gawking for most of the ordeal, his lips parted dumbly, his brows drawn downwards in confusion, and then upwards in surprise, and vice-versa. Francis does a spectacular job of startling him when he feels his cool, nimble fingers lacing into his own, though the little squeeze he receives from the other threatens to plant a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“So hey, when did you two get married? How’d you meet?” Alfred is leaning forward now, his forearms draped against his thighs. His face has been split into a grin for the past few minutes, and Arthur is amazed that his cheeks aren’t feeling sore yet. 

“It’s been a little over three years now. Kat and Ivan immigrated from Russia about six years ago. I met them at an ice skating rink. Some idiot took a turn on the ice too fast, and ran into Kat. So I see this, and my first instinct is, ‘Hey, go help the pretty lady’, yeah? I skate over and begin helping her up, and just as I get her to her feet, I hear this guy screaming, like legit worst-of-your-fears-manifesting screaming, and I look up to see Ivan-”

“I was having a civil talk with him.” Ivan interjects quickly and matter of factly. 

“You were holding him up two feet in the air.”

“He was rather short. I wanted to see eye to eye.”

Mathieu stares for a moment at Ivan, disbelief written clearly on his face, though he makes no further effort to challenge the other’s reasoning. Instead, he shrugs casually, and continues, “I wasn’t about to break that up, so I just spoke to Kat for a while, and I found that I really liked her. And the rest was sort of history.” 

“Neat-O.” Alfred exaggerates the word, and once more his eyes land on Ivan, albeit briefly, but Arthur isn’t a fool. He can see the silent challenge in Alfred’s posture, the way he presents himself as guarded yet strong against the large man. He resists the urge to scold him like he would a child.

“So, err-” Arthur decidedly cuts in, and his voice nearly cracks on the first word alone. “Miss Katyusha, are you the older or younger sibling? Twins also?”

“Oh no,” she finally speaks, and her voice is thick with an accent that makes Ivan’s sound far more tame. “I am older. He is younger. And then our youngest sister is… how do you say…”

“Still in foster care, but not for much longer. We will be getting her out in a year.” Ivan’s voice mimics his suddenly stoic demeanor, and Arthur can sense something dark beneath his curt explanation. 

“How unfortunate. I do hope this year passes quickly for you, then.” It seems like the right thing to say, and the barely there nod he receives from Ivan is enough to diffuse his nerves a little.

“Where are you staying for the length of your trip?” Francis shifts the topic away to something less tense, something Arthur is silently grateful for. 

“We have a hotel nearby. We were able to get a pretty sweet deal on it too, given the time frame.” Mathieu answers with a grin.

“That’s cool, but don’t feel like you gotta stay cooped up there for most of the trip. I might have requested the next few days off from work, so anytime you guys wanna like… I dunno. Hang? I’m free anytime.” Alfred bounces his foot at the bottom of the recliner, and for a moment, Arthur contemplates whether or not he should knock the other in the shin and tell him to stop. 

“Oh, bet on it. This is my first time in the UK, and I’m not about to miss out on it.” 

“Lucky for you, I know this place like the back of my hand.” Alfred shoots a smug smirk towards his brother, and his left hand rises to show off his keys, which he then proceeds to twirl around his finger tightly.

“Got room for three?” Mathieu gazes at him expectantly. 

“Mmmm, maybe more like eight… ten, maybe?”

“Jeez,” Mathieu blinks at Alfred slowly, eyebrows raised. “What are you driving?” 

“Oh, Christ, the tea,” Arthur suddenly remembers, and he springs to his feet quickly, despite Francis’ weak protest that he stay seated at his side. He rushes swiftly into the kitchen, and touches observantly at the teacups, still finding them to be hot. “Still warm.” He announces. Rifling through one of the cabinets, he finds a tray, and lays out everyone’s drinks across it. 

Returning to the living room, Arthur takes care in offering the tray forwards, letting their company take their cups first, before serving Alfred and then Francis. He seats himself on the floor with added caution, blowing over the rim of his cup as steam rises from the amber liquid. Francis stretches out across the floor, reaching for his discarded work bag beside the loveseat, where Arthur knows his complimentary serving of Type A rests. He always mixed it into his drinks, and no one dares draw attention to the action of him stirring in the red swirls. 

It’s perfectly fine and acceptable, until Arthur can hear Alfred choking on a sip. He stops his cup mid rise, and tries to understand why Alfred suddenly couldn’t swallow anymore. 

Alfred is staring forward, but not at Mathieu. Not at Katyusha. His crystalline eyes are boring into Ivan. Ivan, who is frozen in the middle of copying Francis, his tea burgundy red instead of amber. The two seem deadlocked into a staring contest, and the tense lines of their bodies adds an uncomfortable amount of gravity to the situation. 

Ivan smiles at Alfred, teeth snow white and glittering and sharp, though the expression does nothing to melt the coldness in his eyes. “Am I bothering you?”

“Nah,” Alfred tries to sound nonchalant, but the stoniness of his face says otherwise. “Just surprised that I’m surprised.” 

“Your point being?”

Arthur glances to Mathieu, who seems seconds away from sighing, and then to Katyusha, who stares at Alfred with fear in her eyes. Though Arthur can tell when fear is directed at someone, as opposed to for someone, and Katyusha was definitely afraid for Alfred, not of him. Of all the things Arthur predicted would be the ruin of this meeting, it was not the confrontation between these two giants. 

Thank goodness for Francis. Once again, he steps in between everyone, his jovial smile playing stark contrast to the steely gazes of both Ivan and Alfred. “What is Quebec like? I have always wondered about the cultural differences.” 

Luckily, Mathieu seems all too eager to veer off into a long-winded explanation, and half an hour is killed by his and Francis’ banter, with occasional interjections from both Arthur and Katyusha. However, not a single word is spoken from Alfred and Ivan, who occasionally steal challenging glances from each other. Arthur feels almost ill with concern. 

The evening grows later, and with it, it brings the eventual promise of nightfall. Mathieu announces that he and his companions should return to the hotel soon to relax for the night after such a long trip. Arthur is only too glad to politely usher them to the door and see them off with well-placed goodbyes and wishes for good luck and health. Alfred seems to remember that he’s supposed to be talking, and he offers Mathieu a hug before seeing him off. The two make a spectacle of it, and the laughter that passes between them does manage to warm Arthur’s heart a bit. 

The door closes, and Alfred lets loose a monster of a sigh, seemingly pushing all the air out of his lungs. The tense lines drain from his shoulders and he visibly deflates. “Man, that was wild.” 

Arthur, however, wastes no time in voicing his concerns. “Alfred, what on earth was that between you and Ivan?”

“What?” Alfred has the audacity to appear confused over the matter, and it serves to annoy Arthur. “Oh, come on, that was nothing.”

“Nothing my arse. Francis, did you see that? I know you saw it.”

“I will be adopting the Swiss custom of taking no sides.” Francis holds up his hands innocently, to which Arthur slightly glares. 

“Regardless. You don’t plan on trying to fight him over some… silly, menial issue, do you Alfred?” 

“We’re not gonna fight, sheesh.” Alfred rolls his eyes, hands reaching out to pluck his jacket off of the stand next to the door. “I’m just, you know. Letting him know who’s boss. Guy had this holier than thou aura to him, and I was just letting him know that I’m not gonna be next on his list.”

“You’re presuming things.” Arthur deadpans. 

“I’m covering my bases.” Alfred shrugs on his jacket, and zips the front up, his body turning towards the front door. 

Arthur merely sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwing shut momentarily. “Just… stay safe, you git.”

He shuts the door behind Alfred, and once the house is officially emptied of all of its guests, Arthur has to fight the urge not to walk over to the loveseat and collapse face first onto it. Francis can sense the stress radiating off of the other in waves, and wastes no time in closing the distance between the two. His arms find Arthur’s waist, and curl around it, pulling him back until Francis’ chest meets his body. He rests his chin against Arthur’s shoulder, dipping his head to draw in the scent of the other as his eyes flutter closed. 

“I hate strangers.” Arthur announces simply. 

“Yes, but I love you.” Francis counters. 

“That was a terrible segway, but I commend you for the effort.” 

“I had to speak the truth.” comes the offered answer. Arthur can feel Francis’ hands moving upwards, fingers dancing across the fabric of his clothing as they make their way to his shoulders. Francis’ hands flatten, smooth out the rigid form of Arthur’s body, and just the simple motion almost has him melting into Francis’ arms. “My poor love, subject to the silent warfare of masculinity. I thought you were going to have a conniption.” 

“I surprised myself with my resilience.” Arthur answers honestly. 

“How funny it would be if this were to end in romance. They say that rivals have the most chemistry.” 

“That’s ridiculous. They would throttle each other if there were no consequences.” Arthur scoffs. 

“Or fall into the most rapturous act of love.” Francis whispers sweetly into his ear. 

Arthur can feel the heat rise in his face immediately. “That’s how you would write things.” 

“Always.” Francis cants his head, his nose skimming along the delicate line of Arthur’s throat. His soft lips caress the expanse of skin there, his breath cold and soothing, and the sensation draws a soft noise from Arthur. “I am more focused on our book, however.” His hands begin moving again, and Arthur can feel lithe fingers trailing along his sides, touching at him tentatively, appreciatively. “For our next chapter, I see you falling into bed with me. And in those subsequent paragraphs, I do the most sinuous things to you, and you make the sweetest sounds.”

The reaction is immediate. Arousal doesn’t so much spread sluggishly through Arthur as it floods his veins in one large sweep. He grabs at Francis’ hands, and turns slowly in his grasp, eyes flitting up, face flushed, and words stuck to his tongue like honey. 

Francis chases that sweetness with the way he tilts his head and presses his mouth softly against Arthur’s. There’s the slick slide of tongue, a breathy shudder, and suddenly Arthur is coming undone. He falls forward into Francis, eager to taste him and let the other fill his senses with his cloying nature. 

There’s a hint of sharp teeth, a grazing of too-long canines against his lower lip, and Arthur is reminded of the few faint, crescent-shaped scars littering his fair skin. As if knowing where his thoughts lie, Francis’ fingers find his wrist, and his thumb rubs gently at the scar there; a landmark of the trust they’d built together. 

Francis would ask, and Arthur would allow it. Tonight, it would be no different. 


End file.
